don’t believe that Kate thinks much of that,” said Alice.
“Not so much as she ought, I dare say. Poor Kate is not a rich woman, or, I fear, likely to become one. She doesn’t seem to dream of getting married, and her own fortune is less than a hundred a year.”
“Girls who never dream of getting married are just those who make the best marriages at last,” said Alice.
“Perhaps so, but I wish I was easier about Kate. She is the best sister a man ever had.”
“Indeed she is.”
“And I have done nothing for her as yet. I did think, while I was in that wine business, that I could have done anything I pleased for her. But my grandfather’s obstinacy put me out of that; and now I’m beginning the world again,—that is, comparatively. I wonder whether you think I’m wrong in trying to get into Parliament?”
“No; quite right. I admire you for it. It is just what I would do in your place. You are unmarried, and have a right to run the risk.”
“I am so glad to hear you speak like that,” said he. He had now managed to take up that friendly, confidential, almost affectionate tone of talking which he had so often used when abroad with her, and which he had failed to assume when first entering the room.
“I have always thought so.”
“But you have never said it.”
“Haven’t I? I thought I had.”
“Not heartily like that. I know that people abuse me;—my own people, my grandfather, and probably your father,—saying that I am reckless and the rest of it. I do risk everything for my object; but I do not know that any one can blame me,—unless it be Kate. To whom else do I owe anything?”
“Kate does not blame you.”
“No; she sympathizes with me; she, and she only, unless it be you.” Then he paused for an answer, but she made him none. “She is brave enough to give me her hearty sympathy. But perhaps for that very reason I ought to be the more chary in endangering the only support that she is like to have. What is ninety pounds a year for the maintenance of a single lady?”
“I hope that Kate will always live with me,” said Alice; “that is, as soon as she has lost her home at Vavasor Hall.”
He had been very crafty and had laid a trap for her. He had laid a trap for her, and she had fallen into it. She had determined not to be induced to talk of herself; but he had brought the thing round so cunningly that the words were out of her mouth before she remembered whither they would lead her. She did remember this as she was speaking them, but then it was too late.
“What;—at Nethercoats?” said he. “Neither she nor I doubt your love, but few men would like such an intruder as that into their household, and of all men Mr Grey, whose nature is retiring, would like it the least.”
“I was not thinking of Nethercoats,” said Alice.
“Ah, no; that is it, you see. Kate says so often to me that when you are married she will be alone in the world.”
“I don’t think she will ever find that I shall separate myself from her.”
“No; not by any will of your own. Poor Kate! You cannot be surprised that she should think of your marriage with dread. How much of her life has been made up of her companionship with you;—and all the best of it too! You ought not to be angry with her for regarding your withdrawal into Cambridgeshire with dismay.”
Alice could not act the lie which now seemed to be incumbent on her. She could not let him talk of Nethercoats as though it were to be her future home. She made the struggle, and she found that she could not do it. She was unable to find the words which should tell no lie to the ear, and which should yet deceive him. “Kate may still live with me,” she said slowly. “Everything is over between me and Mr Grey.”
“Alice!—is that true?”
“Yes, George; it is true. If you will allow me to say so, I would rather not talk about it;—not just at present.”
“And does Kate know it?”
“Yes, Kate knows it.”
“And my uncle?”
“Yes, papa knows it also.”
“Alice, how can I help speaking of it? How can I not tell you that I am rejoiced that you are saved from a thraldom which I have long felt sure would break your heart?”
“Pray do not talk of it further.”
“Well; if I am forbidden I shall of course obey. But I own it is hard to me. How can I not congratulate you?” To this she answered nothing, but beat with her foot upon the floor as though she were impatient of his words. “Yes, Alice, I understand. You are angry with me,” he continued. “And yet you have no right to be surprised that when you tell me this I should think of all that passed between us in Switzerland. Surely the cousin who was with you then has a right to say what he thinks of this change in your life; at any rate he may do so, if as in this case he approves altogether of what you are doing.”
“I am glad of your approval, George; but pray let that be an end to it.”
After that the two sat silent for a minute or two. She was waiting for him to go, but she could not bid him leave the house. She was angry with herself, in that she had allowed herself to tell him of her altered plans, and she was angry with him because he would not understand that she ought to be spared all conversation on the subject. So she sat looking through the window at the row of gaslights as they were being lit, and he remained in his chair with his elbow on the table and his head resting on his hand.
“Do you remember asking me whether I ever shivered,” he said at last; “—whether I ever thought of things that made me shiver? Don’t you remember; on the bridge at Basle?”
“Yes; I remember.”
“Well, Alice;—one cause for my shivering is over. I won’t say more than that now. Shall you remain long at Cheltenham?”
“Just a month.”
“And then you come back here?”
“I suppose so. Papa and I will probably go down to Vavasor Hall before Christmas. How much before I cannot say.”
“I shall see you at any rate after your return from Cheltenham? Of course Kate will know, and she will tell me.”
“Yes; Kate will know. I suppose she will stay here when she comes up from Norfolk. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Alice. I shall have fewer fits of that inward shivering that you spoke of,—many less, on account of what I have now heard. God bless you, Alice; goodbye.”
“Goodbye, George.”
As he went he took her hand and pressed it closely between his own. In those days when they were lovers,—engaged lovers, a close, long-continued pressure of her hand had been his most eloquent speech of love. He had not been given to many kisses,—not even to many words of love. But he would take her hand and hold it, even as he looked away from her, and she remembered well the touch of his palm. It was ever cool,—cool, and with a surface smooth as a woman’s,—a small hand that had a firm grip. There had been days when she had loved to feel that her own was within it, when she trusted in it, and intended that it should be her staff through life. Now she distrusted it; and as the thoughts of the old days came upon her, and the remembrance of that touch was recalled, she drew her hand away rapidly. Not for that had she driven from her as honest a man as had ever wished to mate with a woman. He, George Vavasor, had never so held her hand since the day when they had parted, and now on this first occasion of her freedom she felt it again. What did he think of her? Did he suppose that she could transfer her love in that way, as a flower may be taken from one buttonhole and placed in another? He read it all, and knew that he was hurrying on too quickly. “I